The Last Town (Book 5): Fleeing the Dead

by Stephen Knight

  “Come on, how long are we going to sit here?” someone shouted.

  “Five more left!”

  Reese took out another stench as it reached for the back of the truck. The cop beside him swore as another crept up and hoisted itself onto the bumper. It grabbed the barrel of his rifle, ignoring the searing heat of the metal as it burned flesh. The cop wrestled with the creature for a moment until Reese shifted aim and put a bullet through its head.

  “Thanks,” the cop said before resuming firing.

  “Free of charge,” Reese said.

  The firing intensified. More stenches made it to the truck, and the cops had to actually grapple with some of them before they could be killed. The children shrieked in terror. Above the din, Reese heard Plosser shouting for the cops up front to defend the cab. The truck lurched slightly as Bates dropped it into gear, its old brakes creaking a bit. More people landed in the truck bed, and someone cried out when they landed badly.

  “We’re clear! We’re clear!” Plosser shouted.

  The big truck lumbered forward as fast as its diesel engine could move it. Reese fell back against the tail gate, and for a moment, he was doubled up over its lip, looking at the pavement of the parking lot. A small, ghoulish face leered back at him. A child stench hold onto the bumper, staring up at him as it tried to pull itself toward him. Reese levered his rifle down and fired. It wasn’t a killing shot, but the stench let go of the truck and tumbled about in its wake.

  The truck vibrated as it smashed through the gathering crowd of dead, sideswiping a score of them as Bates nursed the vehicle through a wide left turn. Bodies literally flew as the truck barreled across the parking lot as it sped toward La Tijera Boulevard. Bumping over the curb, the truck swung right, heading toward the dead traffic on Manchester Boulevard.

  “Jesus, where does he think he’s going?” Renee shouted, her voice high with panic. She crouched beside Reese, eyes wide with terror behind her glasses.

  “Hold on!” Plosser yelled, ducking down behind the cab.

  The five-ton truck crashed right into a passenger car, slamming it out of the way. It continued on into an abandoned pickup, practically bending the vehicle in half as it powered on. The five-ton’s diesel engine roared, and black smoke shot out of its exhaust stack. Despite its power, the big rig began to slow as the pickup before it was shoved into another vehicle. It clattered to a stop, and Reese grabbed onto the lip of the tail gate to prevent himself from being flung forward. One of the cops wasn’t so lucky, and she went bouncing up the length of the bed.

  “Bates!” Reese shouted, trying to right himself as zombies crept toward the truck.

  The diesel roared again as the truck lurched into reverse. One of the stenches got a face full of tail gate and disappeared beneath the vehicle. Halting again, Reese heard the transmission switch from one gear to the next as the air brakes hissed. Then the truck leaped forward again, plowing into the traffic, smashing it out of its path. The world went topsy-turvy for a moment as the five-ton rolled right over a small car, crushing it beneath its tires. Sheet metal crumpled and fiberglass shattered.

  And then, the truck was past. It had shoved its way through four lanes of traffic. Reese looked back. The big military vehicle left a wake of wreckage and twisted zombie bodies in its wake. Something bumped beneath the vehicle, and an instant later a battered stench rolled out from beneath the truck. He had no idea how long it had been holding on to the undercarriage, but it had paid a price—it was missing most of its clothes along with both legs. The corpse floundered about, turning its flayed, road-rash ravaged face toward the truck as it rumbled away. Even over the cackling diesel, Reese heard its forlorn hiss as it tried to crawl after the vehicle.

  ###

  Bates tried to stick close to the course they had taken during their trip south, not because he appreciated the view, but because it made some tactical sense to return through areas where they fairly knew what to expect. But the landscape had changed since they last made the passage. The neighborhoods were still and lifeless now, the only stirrings of life being abandoned dogs and cats that skulked their way between houses or darted across the road. Fires burned; the five ton rumbled past a fire department tanker truck, its engine stilled, extended hoses pointing toward a structure which had already burned itself out. Dried blood littered the area, and bloodied body parts lay scattered about, clearly visible in the late afternoon sun. Swarms of flies drifted about like pulsating clouds of smoke, feasting and breeding over rotting remains. Near the tanker truck’s front bumper, a mostly-disemboweled corpse wearing an LAFD jacket flailed weakly, its dull eyes fixated on the National Guard truck as it growled past.

  As the big truck rumbled up suburban city streets, Reese saw no indications the living were present. Anyone still left alive was likely cowering where they were, sheltering in place. No one hailed the truck or tried to communicate with any aboard it. The survivors, if there were any, had already learned a valuable lesson: don’t attract attention.

  “Mister?”

  Reese looked over at a young boy with sunken eyes. He was pale, his skin almost the color of alabaster in appearance. His dark hair contrasted with the lightness of his skin, making for an unusual appearance in the daylight sun. The boy clung to his mother, who appeared to be half-conscious, at best. The toll of limitless terror and exhaustion. The boy was reeling from it as well, but like most children, he had a tolerance for punishment that adults couldn’t take.

  “What’s up, pal?”

  “Where are we going?” the boy’s wan voice was barely audible above the truck’s passage, and Reese inched closer to hear what he had to say.

  “We’re going to Santa Monica,” he told the boy.

  “Why?”

  “The officer driving the truck’s made arrangements for a boat to meet us.”

  “Is it a big boat?”

  “Oh, yeah. At least twice the size of this truck.”

  The boy considered that. “I don’t think that’s going to be big enough.”

  The truck slowed to make a turn. Reese looked up, half-rising in the bed. The street Bates had intended to take had been barricaded with cars and trucks and razor wire. The barrier looked pretty tough, and whoever had built it had some experience. Several corpses were hung up in the wire, twitching and squirming. Between the barricade and the truck, dozens of bodies lay in the middle of the street. A banquet for the flies and carrion birds that feasted on them.

  Bates cut the wheels in the opposite direction. There was no use trying to get the truck through the barricade, and if any of its defenders were still alive, they would probably resist such an act. The truck continued up the street it had been traveling on, and Reese slowly lowered himself down beside the boy.

  “Don’t worry, pal,” he said. “The boat, it’ll be plenty big enough for all of us.”

  “Where will we go?”

  “Do you like islands?” Reese asked.

  “I don’t know. I’ve never been to an island before.”

  The boy’s father stirred, sitting on the other side of the boy’s mother. “Not so, little man. You’ve been to Hawaii.”

  The boy looked at Reese. “Are we going to Hawaii?” he asked.

  Reese snorted. “Well, unfortunately not. But we’ll be going to an island, just the same.”

  “Is it nice there?”

  Reese spread his hands. “Nicer than it is here.”

  “Horde,” Plosser said. “Dead ahead. Get on your guns.”

  The woman snapped awake. “Oh God, not again,” she said.

  “Move to the center of the truck,” Reese said. “We need to keep the sides clear.”

  It was a system they’d improvised during the initial run from the Hollywood Bowl. Shooters on the sides, holding the dead at bay. Civilians or those without any means to defend themselves in the center, sandwiched between the two rows of cops on either side. The adults would help the defenders by reloading magazines and distributing them as needed. So far,
the majority of the engagements had been short-lived so ammunition supply wasn’t an issue. But if the truck stalled, or became otherwise decisively engaged, the civilians were going to be pretty damned busy. As the civvies took their positions, Reese got up and turned, facing outward, his rifle already shouldered. Plosser had been right. Ahead, a gaggle of several dozen stenches lurched toward the truck, drawn to it like bees to honey. Bates was apparently eager to hasten the meeting, and he pushed down on the throttle. The five-ton truck obliged by accelerating toward the stenches. Even though they were facing down an object whose flight they hadn’t a chance of in Hell altering, the zombies surged forward. The faster ones picked up the pace, hurrying to their own end.

  The truck didn’t even slow down when it hit the first wave, plowing right through the six or seven runners that charged the vehicle. When it hit the main body of the dead herd, it began to rock from side to side; not because of the mass of dead bodies braining themselves against the truck’s extended bumper and winch, but because of the squirming corpses that were being crushed beneath the truck’s forty-something inch tires. Reese had to hold on tight to prevent himself from being hurled over the side.

  “Oh my God,” Marsh moaned, before vomiting over the side of the railing.

  “Crap, Detective—you gonna be like this on the boat?” Thanh asked.

  Marsh made to respond, but his reply was transformed into a gurgling roar as he vomited again.

  “Attaboy, Marsh!” Plosser said. “Give them just what they’re looking for: a nice, hot lunch!”

  The truck continued on, plowing through the undead sea, its heavy bumper and tall tires pulverizing bone, tearing flesh, and pulping whatever internal organs that still remained inside the dead. Driving through herds of the dead at night had frightened Reese terribly; doing it during the day left him almost mortally horrified. He could see everything; the bright California sunshine revealed every detail, from the pallor of the dead’s mottled flesh to the almost blue hues of their tongues and gums. Their fingers and hands were stained dark with dried blood, and desiccated tissue hung to whatever remained of their clothing from when they last fed. It was a horrific visage, and the mere contemplation of it left his heart hammering in his chest and his lungs burned, as if he was on the verge of suffocation.

  And then, the truck crashed through, leaving the dead behind. They still gave chase, but they had no chance of catching the truck and feasting on the cargo it carried. Just the same, Reese couldn’t quite catch his breath, and he hung onto the side rail like a drunken man might try and hold onto a wall to prevent from falling.

  Renee poked him. “Hey, Reese—you all right?”

  “Yeah.” Reese’s voice was a croak. “It’s the zombie apocalypse and all, but yeah, I’m fine.”

  “Clear the sides!” Plosser yelled. An instant later, a rifle cracked. Reese straightened and looked over the side of the rail. There were no stenches clinging to the side of the bed—a near impossible feat, since the only thing to grab onto were the truck’s wheels—but one was hanging onto the passenger side mounting handle. As he watched, the stench grabbed onto the mirror support and hauled itself onto the running board. Reese brought his rifle around and drilled it through the side of the face with a single shot. Again, it wasn’t a fatal hit, but the impact was enough to make the zombie lose its grip, and it fell away from the truck.

  Reese eased back into the bed of the truck. The vehicle shuddered a moment later, a long, drawn out paroxysm that lasted for several seconds. Something groaned at regular intervals as the truck rolled up the street. After several hours of almost nonstop abuse including being used as a literal battering ram, the five ton truck was finally showing some wear and tear.

  “That doesn’t sound too good,” Renee said, looking around.

  “I guess even military grade has its limits,” Reese said. He tried to keep his tone nonchalant, but inside, he felt like he might join Marsh in the puke parade. Without the truck, they were all dead.

  He put a hand on the floor of the rig’s bed. Hang in there, sweetheart.

  The shuddering stopped after a few moments, then returned. It faded again. Reese looked up at the exhaust stack. The effluvia seemed darker than normal. Or did it? Reese had never been into the diesel craze, so he couldn’t tell.

  “Yeah, it’s getting fucked up,” Plosser said.

  Reese looked over and saw Plosser looking back at him. The National Guard NCO looked grim.

  “Any idea what’s wrong?”

  Plosser shrugged. “Could be anything. Don’t sweat it, though. We’ll be fine.”

  “What’ll be fine?” Marsh asked.

  Plosser cut his eyes over to the sallow-faced detective. “Don’t worry your pretty head about it, Marsh. In a couple of hours, you’ll be on the boat with the rest of us.”

  “Yeah? And what if Bates’s friends don’t come?”

  “Then I’ll make sure the stenches get to you first.”

  Marsh frankly gawked at the rangy National Guardsman for a moment, then snorted. “Yeah. Sure.”

  “I don’t know, Marsh,” Thanh said. “He looks like he might mean it.”

  Plosser turned and faced forward again. “Okay. More off to the left. Let’s see if we can’t thin them out a bit when we get closer.”

  ###

  An hour later, they made it into Santa Monica.

  The busy seaside town was a lifeless derelict, populated only by what appeared to be a small number of stenches. Reese recognized one of them as an old beach bum called Surfside Eddie, a thin-shouldered man with a patchy beard who had been gaunt even before he had become a zombie. He used to wear colorful floral shirts and a threadbare watch cap. The shirt was long gone, apparently torn away when Eddie had been attacked, bitten, and infected. The cap still remained, though slightly askew, revealing a lank lock of blond hair that had been turning gray before his life had fled. His beard remained as well, though it was crusty beneath a thick patina of dried blood. Eddie was a creature of habit, and even though he was now a zombie, he still hung around the intersection of Pico Boulevard and Appian Way. It was his little slice of territory, and it was close to Crescent Bay Park, where he would retreat at night with whatever booze he could score during his daily bouts of begging and panhandling.

  When he saw the truck, Eddie’s face remained frozen and immobile, his eyes even more vacant than they had been in life. But he charged forward, hurtling toward the truck from where he had stood on Ocean Front Walk just beyond the Casa del Mar hotel. The hotel was lifeless and still, and several windows had been shattered. Drapery fluttered in the ocean breeze like streamers.

  “Whoa, Eddie can run,” Thanh said, as the truck turned off Pico and onto Appian.

  “That motherfucking low life!” Marsh snapped.

  “More like a motherfucking no-life now,” Reese responded. He watched as Eddie bore down on the truck. One of his feet was bare, while the other was still shod in a well-worn Nike athletic shoe. The truck’s creaking and shuddering had increased over the past few miles, and the diesel engine seemed to rattle more than cackle. Just as well; the plan was to abandon it in the parking lot they were approaching, and make for the beach.

  Marsh snorted, suddenly transforming into a hard ass now that help was on the way. “Well, he’s not going to do much all by himself.” He raised his rifle and sighted on the approaching zombie.

  A hundred more boiled out of the Casa del Mar and joined Eddie in his chase of the limping five ton truck.

  Reese grabbed his ROVER handset. “Bates—forget the parking lot, take us right out to the beach! Make sure your friends are where they said they’d be!”

  In response, the truck’s diesel picked up, coughing and hiccupping as Bates stomped on the accelerator. The rig was slow to react, but it began speeding up. Marsh fired at Surfside Eddie with his rifle, but it took three shots to hit him, and even then it was right in the lower chest. That did nothing to slow the stench.

  “Save it for the b
each, Marsh!” Reese shouted.

  The truck passed underneath an apartment building boardwalk that reached across the street, its engine thundering. The parking lot was right on the other side, and it was surprisingly vacant. Bates cut the wheel and drove right through the chain link fence that surrounded it. Behind them, stenches smashed through the windows of the five story apartment building and leaped out into the street. The falls shattered their legs, but that didn’t stop them from crawling after the truck, maws opened wide. They were fairly trampled by the horde that surged down the street, still led by Surfside Eddie.

  Yeah, this isn’t looking so hot now, Reese thought.

  The truck ripped across the parking lot and slammed through the fence on the other side. The beach looked mostly deserted; the only figures amidst the sea of sand were stenches, and they all turned toward the truck as it bolted out into the shoreline. Most were too far away to be an immediate threat, but by now everyone in the truck knew how relentless they were.

  Renee rose into a half-crouch, trying to look past the truck’s cab. “Is it here? The boat, is it here?”

  “Roger that, about a hundred meters out!” Plosser said. “Aluminum hulled catamaran, and they have a rubber-hulled tender in the water!”

  “Thank God,” Renee said, and there were practically tears in her voice.

  Reese felt the same way. Not because the Port Police were on station, but because they were more than three hundred feet out in the water, and the horde that was pursuing them was at least a couple of hundred in number and growing.

  The five ton continued across the beach, its broad tires leaving deep furrows in the loose sand higher on the shoreline. Its engine was practically screaming now, and the smoke from its exhaust stack was a sooty gray. It sounded like the truck’s powerplant was burning itself up in its final act of acceleration.

  Bates’s voice came over the ROVERs. “I’m taking us into the water, you all need to get ready for it!”

  “What?” Reese snapped. He picked up his ROVER handset. “Bates, are you really taking us into the water?”